


where the light shone

by iosis



Category: Lamento -BEYOND THE VOID-
Genre: Gen, Lamento Secret Santa 2018, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-26 22:14:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17150042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iosis/pseuds/iosis
Summary: just a feeling unnamed, implausible. too big to be put into words, too precious to be questioned.(Lamento Secret Santa 2018)





	where the light shone

**Author's Note:**

> A very happy holiday season to o-ow-ba! I hope you enjoy this small soft vignette, it was a lot of fun to work on :^)

 

 

 

_Drip_

 

Presence of rain all around - summertime humidity and scents and sounds. Its whispering among the leaves of trees, its streaks over the windows, its uninvasive but constant pitter-patter dance on the roof -

Uninvasive, up until this point.

 

_Drip_

 

He hasn't noticed the crack in the ceiling before.

Well, it's not even a ceiling, technically, raw wooden planks and branches lining the space between the roof-slopes, held together at varying heights and angles some by fixtures, some by spellcraft. Not quite ceiling, not quite attic; festooned with garlands of drying flowers and herbs, old scrolls, tools of seasonal need that wouldn't be of relevance for a while. The first time Shui had laid his eyes upon this architectural wonder of his was followed with yet another concern for his everyday survival on his own, lest the heavy brass distiller suspended at an impossible angle should fall and render him unconscious.

Leaks smiles at the memory, eyes drifting shut. He'd always thought - feared, in some ways - that the reluctant admittance of another into his home- his science, his thought, his life - would bring nothing but annoyance, would only serve as emphasis to complete incompatibility of their worlds. But each wide-eyed gaze of amazement, a whole forest in itself - each word of awe bridging on confusion, each song, each faux-exasperated 'Honestly, how have you survived by yourself for so long?!' - there's nothing but fondness and an almost-smug amusement in Shui's wake.

 

_Drip_

 

A tiny pinpoint of cold and wet less than an inch away from his face, a disturbance bringing him back from the haze of memory, of warmth. One of the roof-logs, swelling up with rainwater, the traitor threatening his time of sentiment...

A half-whispered spell should be enough to keep the leak at bay, at least for the timebeing. Tomorrow he'll have to find some time and reseal it.

He could do it now, technically - get it out of the way now - but leaving the bed would mean waking up Shui.

 

 

The Poet tells him that even in his sleep, he, Leaks, remains as regimented and reserved as always. 'You lie there facing the ceiling, straight like a stalk of reed, and you're still there like that when I wake up; I really doubt you've moved at all!' Leaks can't really argue with that - there's no other data for comparison, noone else he'd let anywhere near the vulnerable state of his own sleep.

Regardless of his claims, Shui himself is the polar opposite. Limbs thrown all over the place, covers spilling onto the floor, tail dancing around from time to time - restlessness in motion. He's even attempted speaking in his slumber a few times, few mumbled words that made no sense or left no recollection when Leaks would question them in the morning.

 

Almost as though eager to confirm his musings, Shui rolls over and shifts beside him, a gentle exhale as he tugs at the blankets, still fast asleep; stays fast asleep as Leaks murmurs a spell somewhere into the murky heights of the ceiling. Rain won't bother them any longer - just sing through the forest all around them, leaving them a small island of refuge in the midst of it all.

 

Leaks thinks of the space between his arm and the curve of Shui's shoulder, of the way their hair flows together over the pillows. Silver over the colour of fire - except night bleeds the colours out and the lone lantern swaying in the window casts them a soft gold.

It would take a singular motion, a sweep of his hand to reach over and bridge the space between them; to brush these unruly stands of hair aside and feel the warmth of skin on skin. He almost considers it for a second, fingers twitching, anticipating motion - but there's something extraordinary in this and this alone, in the feeling of unity and connected and there and alive he hadn't thought possible between cats - maybe between the pull of twin Moons and the answer of the sea, or between Shui's music and the Poet himself. Touch would ruin it, for it is only in the space between them, in the way their breathing synchronises without meeting, without trying, in the way the more he looks at Shui the more something in his chest aches until he has to look away again. Not a bad _'aches'_ \- just a feeling unnamed, implausible. Too big to be put into words, too precious to be questioned.

Sleep, with all its intricacies and dreams and various other anomalies of logic, seemed easier to map out than emotion, so sleep is what Leaks opts for instead.

 

His mind wanders, drifts again - above treetops higher than life itself, above the stars and constellations, lulled by the sound of Shui's even breathing beside him, that same arm's length away. Somewhere below, there's Sisa, forests riddled with rivers and clearings and villages. Shui's house tucked into one of them, no doubt.

He thinks of Shui's wife, brow slightly furrowed -but there's no hurt there, no anything as mundane as jealousy - why feel anything but love when the whole world was strung together on love alone? No, instead there's...curiosity, perhaps? Is there the same gentle comfort found in the way Shui shares the space with her like in the way he does now with him, the intangible warmth, the lantern swaying slightly within a startlit circle of the night? Will a time come when their child - son, Shui insists, though how does he know? Their son will, too, will find the same within someone else?

(For a moment there's almost a glimpse of something, almost - a blur of colour at the edge of subconsciousness. White hair, blue steel -and red, a whole lot of red, angry and longing and heartfelt - a premonition, a half-forgotten memory? Belonging to Shui, or to himself? Doesn't matter. Let the thought go, for phantoms of different time frames should live elsewhere and stay elsewhere. Now is dear enough, the moments suspended in time

'Goodnight',he thinks instead. To the lights hiding in the not-quite-attic and to the stars above, to the Moon of Night keening towards the horizon somewhere over the rainclouds, over the distant thunder; to the waters and the forests. To the Poet - _his_ Poet - in all of his ridiculous trust and openness and love towards everything in his path.

Everything to have been a part of him, a part of the word. If not always - for nothing is an always - than at least for now.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> as always, big thanks to mod for organising, you know who you are :^)


End file.
